


A Tulip in the Hand

by jessieb



Series: One Hundred Leagues and Ten [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-04-18 13:17:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14213973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessieb/pseuds/jessieb
Summary: As Elrond returns to Imladris, both he and Thranduil experience minor epiphanies. As tends to be the case, this inspires change. It doesn't necessarily inspire agreement.





	1. Prologue: Iavas- The Honey Harvest

‘My thanks for humouring me, cousin.’ Nostalion said, as he passed the end of the rope to Thranduil.

‘Always.’ Thranduil replied with a smile as he took the now thoroughly tested rope. ‘And mine to you for making certain that I don’t split my skull open.’

‘Save your thanks for now; with you, anything is possible.’

With a laugh, Thranduil looked to Elrond through the throng of other elves gathered for the harvesting. ‘Will you be joining me?’ he asked. The honey hives were illuminated by the sunlight in a way they hadn’t been when Elrond first saw them. Yet the huge golden crescents still looked sinister, and still hung attached to the cliff an inconceivable distance from the cave floor. *

‘You believe I would not.’

Thranduil grinned, leaning on the rope, challenge in every line of his posture.

That just wouldn’t do. He stepped forward, took the thin rope in hand. There was a cheer from the surrounding elves, but Thranduil’s surprised breath and nod felt more important. ‘Put this on then,’ he said, handing him a soft leather harness.

‘Here,’ a voice behind him said. Then Nostalion was stood before him with another leather contraption, which he attached to the harness. Giving it a yank to check it’s strength, he spoke seriously, ‘This will prevent you accidentally moving too far from the rope. The harness will be little use if you lean too far away to use it. Listen carefully to the instructions you’re given, and to Thranduil when you are aloft- these are not always entirely reliable.’ He stepped back and nodded. Then he looked more deeply at Elrond, smiled and nodded once more, seemingly satisfied with more than the harness. ‘Take care.’

 ‘You should perhaps have one as well,’ he said to Thranduil, who was waiting patiently for once.  ‘To be sure that you can assist him if you need to.’

Thranduil declined, claiming it would restrict him too much, but took the rope in case he might want it later. He also took both poles, with both basket and glaive, strapped to his back.

After an entirely too brief discussion of technique and safety, Thranduil began to climb. He followed, moving rhythmically as he’d been shown; wrap the foot around the rope, stamp down to lock the rope around the foot, push up to stand, hold with hands, release and lift feet, and wrap, stamp, push. Just wrap, stamp, push. Thranduil seemed to be doing something different, something rather more elegant, but he wasn’t going to deviate from this now familiar movement any time soon. After a time, Thranduil paused.

‘Are you well down there?’

‘So long as I do not look down.’

A soft laugh. He leaned over the chasm between them in a way that made Elrond’s intercostals clench, and took hold of his rope. There was a distant shout of umbrage from far below which Thranduil ignored.  ‘Wait a moment. Lock your foot.’

He did so, and Thranduil checked it. ‘Perfect. Again, faster. Alright. Now do as I do- squat and sit forward into the rope.’

Forcing deep breaths through the tightness at his chest, he complied. Surprisingly, it really was that simple, and Thranduil waited without comment while the tightness eased.

‘Good. Before we go any further, I just wanted to remind you what to do if they swarm.’

Wonderful.

‘Is it likely?’

‘Not if you quiet your presence somewhat.’

Quiet his presence?

‘You have a gentle presence by nature, otherwise I wouldn’t even have suggested this. Try and..soften your fea in the world.’

‘I don’t suppose you could have explained this on the ground?’

‘There’s no need to get frustrated. Simply…think kindly at them.’ He paused expectantly.

High above them, the hive loomed. But no; they were small, mild creatures. Living peacefully in their little home.  

‘Yes. Yes that will work, I think. We will move slowly, I will sing. If I tell you to drop, you must go down as fast as possible. You must glide down the rope as quickly as you may without causing yourself injury, do you understand?’

‘Completely. Rest assured; I will not linger.’

Thranduil frowned. ‘You need not do this. All jests aside, none would think less of you. Least of all me.’

Wouldn’t he? Thranduil, who so valued tenacity? It mattered not anyway.

‘I wish to. Indeed, as hard as it may currently be to believe, I have been looking forward to this. Only,’ he raised a brow and smiled a little uneasily, ‘be patient with me?’

‘Of course. You must chastise me if I chivvy you.’

‘Very well.’

They ascended to the hives, climbing into the bees themselves like rising into clouds on mountain tops, and all the while Thranduil sang. In his voice there was warmth like wine in the belly, like spending a summer noonday at rest on a mossy bank, like hours lingering in conversation over the night meal with the clan.

‘Here’, he murmured, holding out the basket. ‘Hold this beneath the comb as I cut. Keep your wits, _mellon nin.’_

A few short minutes of the glaive’s slow, calm shear through the wax, and a hunk of comb fell into the basket with a wet plunk. It was heavier than he had expected, but the position Thranduil had shown him kept him balanced. The humming of the bees around them grew brighter, and some of them began to wriggle where they sat on his arms. Yet Thranduil seemed unperturbed, the liquid cadence of his voice not altering, so all must be well. They continued, carefully collecting no more than the bees could spare before moving to the second comb. When they finished, Thranduil reattached the glaive to his back and took hold of the basket’s pole.

‘Let go,’ he murmured. ‘I have it.’ Yet he couldn’t; the bees were everywhere and once he released the pole where would he put his hands? How could he possibly descend without disturbing them?

‘Elrond. Look at me. All is well.’ The humming grew louder, sharper. The distance to the sharp rocks in the beck below yawned wide. Thranduil smoothed a bee from Elrond’s cheek (they were so much larger than he had thought they would be), and he flinched. Then Thranduil’s hand was in his hair, and his face was being drawn up. Thranduil was composed as ever, his voice hushed but firm. ‘ _Elrond.’_

So he thought those kind thoughts, and smoothed the sleepy bees away from the rope, and began the slow descent. As they went, the bees slowly disappeared, flying off to the rafters once more. On the ground, they were immediately fussed over; hands catching the heavy basket and detaching his harness. They were encouraged away from the rope platform, where the next two climbers waited. One nodded to him with a grin.

After they washed their hands and faces in the beck, Thranduil broke off a piece of comb. He licked at the honey oozing from it, gently picked a dozy bee free from the comb and set it to fly back to the hive. Elrond plucked off his own piece, and found his own little residents to be set free with helpful fingers. The comb was soft and new, honey dripping over his hand and lips, as delightful as the confections created by his own kitchen. Others began to take a piece, and the happy sight of these people enjoying the honey he’d helped to collect was just as sweet. Many lifted the golden chunks to them before they ate in a friendly toast. He was handed a glass of light nettle fizzy wine in a smooth wooden goblet, and Thranduil tapped his own against it.

‘Well done,’ he said. ‘And you say that I’m full of surprises.

Leaving the festival early, barely past twilight, they spent most of the evening in Thranduil’s talan.

* * *

Safely in his own talan, Thranduil kissed him, still laughing. He pulled Elrond closer, his impatience fuelled by the pleasant buzz of Dorwinion and the want he felt. Fortunately, Elrond appeared more than willing to oblige him. They undressed, Elrond steering them towards the bed as they did so

Elrond’s attempts to learn Gonathra, his impatience to learn set steps that simply did not exist, were oddly endearing. 

‘I was not that abysmal.’

On the bed, he drew Elrond closer with a welcoming kiss to smother the protestation.

 ‘You do passably well for someone who has never danced thus before.’ Elrond raised an eyebrow. ‘Nor understood the principle.’

Elrond laughed. He sat back on his heels, stroking idly along Thranduil’s legs.

‘The depth of your praise humbles me.’

‘I should think it does.’

‘Did _you_ learn quickly?’

Thranduil grinned. ‘No,’ he conceded, ‘but there were no teachers then, as such’

‘You were among the first to dance it?’

Thranduil hummed agreement and idly gazed down Elrond’s body. 

Elrond took a pillow and touched his hip. Thranduil raised up obligingly and the pillow was slipped beneath him. Then Elrond stroked Thranduil’s penis with one hand and pressed one thumb at his entrance. Thranduil glanced away and retrieved the pot of salve, evidently distracted.

‘Yes…’

Elrond removed his hands and leant down to exchange a kiss as Thranduil slicked him. He pulled away and sucked on one nipple and then the other, humming a vague tune. In moments, Thranduil recognised it as the tune they had been dancing to. Before he had time to utter more than a breathless laugh, Elrond’s hands were lifting his legs higher and pressure momentarily pushed at his entrance. It retreated and pressed again. And again, each time going what seemed like just a hairs breadth further into him. The humming continued but slowly changed to a melody he vaguely recognised.

Elrond continued to watch him, smiling, as Thranduil drew him down closer. Elrond took his hands from under his legs and briefly touched one thumb to the curve at the corner of Thranduils mouth, then sank into his embrace. If this hadn’t brought them cheek to cheek, Thranduil may not even have heard him begin to sing.

The only sounds were Elrond’s quiet singing, the rustle of the bed sheets and his own artless gasps. The slow, dragging thrusts spread pleasure through his limbs like the push and pull of waves in an advancing tide and the long thrusts were interspersed with pauses where they were as close as they could be, the fullness within him inescapable. All the while, Elrond sang in soft, hitching murmurs.

The angle was _perfect_ and Elrond’s body was pressed fully against his, stimulating his still damp and sensitive nipples. Pleasure shooting up his spine, he reached between them, closed his fingers around his length and stroked, climaxing immediately. Elrond broke off his singing and moaned as he followed.

After a few moments, Elrond sagged into his arms completely, smearing seed between them. Thranduil grimaced but stroked his dark hair and kissed his temple.

A short while later, Elrond rose to fetch a cloth. Both clean, they settled back down on their sides, face to face and all tangled up together.

Elrond touched the corner of his mouth again, light as a kiss, and spoke carefully.

‘Thank you. Not for this, for the visit. For including me in your life, your family, your clan. For trusting me to see your travails in the South.’

Thranduil shrugged. ‘Elrond the Wise. It seemed a wasted opportunity not to.’ Yet he looked tenderly across at Elrond then. ‘You are welcome. Thank you for being someone I can trust with it.’  

 ‘It is my hope that our experience with plague among the _Edain_ will prove beneficial to your forest healers. I will do all that I can to aid you in protecting this home. These people. Your people. I see now that this land is precious beyond measure.’

Thranduil stretched against the cool sheets.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Beyond all.’

* * *

A handful of nights since Elrond’s departure, and Thranduil was quietly agreed to be in a foul mood.

Galion rocked on the balls of his feet, watching him shoot arrows into a far simpler target than would actually challenge him, without any true concentration.

‘Legolas has sent me to check on you. He is concerned.’

Thranduil rolled his eyes. ‘This is becoming a habit. Couldn’t he come himself?’

‘It’s about your lover. Do you miss him?’

‘No. Though I’m sure I will soon enough. He’s one of few people who don’t ask inane questions.’

‘He’s nosy though.’

‘That he is. Inquisitive as a child.’

He paused to collect his arrows, so Galion spoke to his back.

‘Have you argued then?’

‘We have not.’

‘This is like pulling teeth.’

‘Why is it any of your concern in the first place? Perhaps I don’t wish to speak of it and your questioning is merely irritating me, have you considered that?’ Back at his post, he made a vicious, imprecise shot.

‘Have you considered that perhaps I believe that I am your friend?’

He paused mid-draw. Then shot.

‘Yes, briefly.’ He looked over. ‘I apologise, Galion. I have no cause to be so short with you, and it is a failure that I allow myself to be so.’

‘I would not be so harsh. Your marksmanship, however, is getting worse.’

‘Compared to what, yours?’

‘Do I get to know why you are so bad tempered?’

‘I suppose you deserve to know. First, though, tell me true; what do you think of him?’

‘What do you mean, ‘what do I think of him’? It hardly matters when I barely know the man.’

‘Then you don’t wish to tell me what you do think.’

‘I can see that he’s a good friend to you. That’s most important.’

‘He is. Yes, he is. In a way that… I’m sorry, but in a way that no one I’m responsible for can be. And I wondered how it would be when he came here. If he would judge us all as he was taught to.  Yet he has surprised me, and shown himself all the wiser than I had guessed. And I…wonder that he still chooses me.’

‘Why?’

‘He speaks often of a woman. A scholar he knows, who resides in Imladris. He admires her greatly, and she has ample time to witness the fact.’

‘And so?’

‘And so how do such things usually progress?’

‘You presume much if you believe you can predict her own mind.’

‘I don’t have to; much of her poetry is veiled praise of many of Elrond’s assets.

‘Then why should that be a concern? Granted, it could make your visits a little strange when you decide who would be with him at what time.’ He shrugged. ‘Unless you like her as well of course, which would make things a great deal simpler.’

‘Galion, you do talk nonsense sometimes. Do not mistake me, I do not object to her. I would be perfectly content with Elrond choosing her as a lover also; in fact I think she would be good for him. It is only that I have no intention of being put aside if I can help it.’

Galion shrugged. ‘Why would he put you aside? Did you quarrel after all? Anyroad, they might even already be bedding; have you asked him?’

‘It had occurred to me, but no; I don’t want him thinking I want exclusivity. You’re not listening, Galion; I do not believe that he will take two lovers simultaneously.’

‘Why on earth not, if he has the chance? I thought you were but companions?’

‘We are; he is wed, you may recall.’

‘Pch, wed.’

‘Yes, wed. In all of this, you forget Elrond’s upbringing and the culture of Imladris, but let me assure you that in his beliefs in this he is Noldorin.’

‘Only when it suits your purpose or his.’

Thranduil took another arrow but didn’t shoot. After a moment he threw it half-heartedly at Galion and stalked over to the target. He pulled the remaining arrows out in silence.

Galion straightened the fletching on the offending arrow. ‘So it does concern you.’

Still silence. He sighed and ambled over to stand beside him.

‘Thranduil?’

He somehow managed not to laugh as Thranduil took a deep breath, released it, then tried again and just huffed in frustration. _Just wait,_ he reminded himself, _like tickling a trout._

Eventually, Thranduil looked at him evenly.

‘I do not want him forever.’

 _And hoick him out of the water._ ‘D’you want him now, though?’ he asked idly.

Thranduil spoke with care, refusing to be drawn so easily. ‘He is a dear friend, whom I value, and I enjoy this additional facet to our friendship. I have not been so attracted by so close a friend before. That said, he is not… a necessity.’

Galion shrugged. ‘Few things in life are. Water, food, air. All else is merely noise and colour. Will you take some advice?’

‘I suspect that I am about to, whe-.’

‘Take love where’re you should find it. Be it exquisite and enraptured, be it confounding and

reckless, be it profound and unwavering.’ Seeing Thranduil’s expression, he continued placatingly.

‘Or shallow and ephemeral.’  He saw his wife smile for a moment and the shadow of his dear daughter ducked behind a silver birch.  ‘Though this may be but the love of a friend, love is all too fleeting, whatever we may wish. Still, I am teaching my grandfather to skin rabbits on that account.’

‘No, Galion.’ Thranduil’s hand touching his own was light as a moth. ‘The loss of a child is a horror the like of which I cannot comprehend. I regret reminding you of it.’ He faltered slightly. ‘I am immeasurably sorry, Galion, for all of it.’ His palpable regret choked Galion. He swallowed against it.

‘Don’t be. You did your best.’

A breath, the lancing of a wound. ‘My best was not sufficient for her.’

Galion swallowed again and cleared his throat. ‘It was good enough for me, more than any of the rest of us could have accomplished, and let that be the end of it.’ He closed his hand around Thranduil’s and felt an answering squeeze. They stood in silence.

‘Thank you.’ Thranduil said finally. ‘Come. We have work to do, you and I.’

Later, they sat on the floor of the kitchen, where they had been testing the wine for some time.

Finally, Galion waved a hand.

‘Describe her then, this lady you wish to defend the great Lord Elrond’s virtue against.’

Thranduil swore at him. Then sighed.

‘She is most lovely,’ he admitted. ‘She is kind and considerate, but strong and clear of mind. Learned too, skilled in music and gracefully beautiful. She has a quick wit and she’s interesting. Most importantly, she is not cold and cruel and heedless of the hearts of others for her own means. She is not ruthless.  She is not damaged. She probably sleeps through until morning every eve and wakes with one breast enticingly bared.’

Galion snorted. ‘Oh, balls,’ he exclaimed, ‘You sound half in love with the woman yourself.’

‘Impertinence is unflattering. What I am trying to explain is that she would be easy to love and they would match each other well. It would be a much simpler way to live.’

‘Not every being desires a simple life. Perhaps he likes a little spice,’ he leered.

‘I shall throw something at you again in a moment.’

‘As long as it’s not the wine, I shan’t care. And yes, that was a hint, hand it over, O Himdoron.

For a moment, it really did look like the flagon would be aimed at his head. When it was safely in hand, he continued.

‘Anyway, it has been far too long since you’ve had someone around as will make you laugh at yourself. Far too serious, these days.’

Thranduil tipped his head back against the armchair and settled him with a dark stare.

‘Someone has to be.’

‘Doesn’t have to be you all of the time.’ He yawned. ‘I need to head back to my talan, or I’ll be awake afore I’m asleep.’

At the door, he spun back around and fixed Thranduil with a querulous glare.

‘You,’ he said, ‘You are…you are warm hearted and courageous and…’ he thought long and hard for a moment while he searched for the word, holding up his hand for silence as Thranduil waited indulgently. Finally, he had it. ‘Steadfast! You’re steadfast. And…and you’ve got these legs that-’

‘I understand, Galion. Thank you.’ Thranduil interceded rapidly. ‘Do you need assistance, my old friend?’

‘No, no, no. No. Sleep well, Thranduil.’

‘Sleep well.’

Which they did, each dreaming of nights spent doing anything but sleeping.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a bit of a risk with this one, so all feedback welcomed :)

With disbelief, Thranduil was forced to acknowledge that whatever attacked the forest’s very fea, it grew yet hungrier. The tapestry of his defences should not have been so weakened so soon; it had been no more than a decade since he last walked the bounds here. Yet it was so weakened, here in the South Western border, that he had chosen to stop and sink deeply into the Song to repair the defences. Many strands of his wards were so worn, it were better to simply weave a new thread. The old wards slipped through his fingers, disintegrating into wisps of power. How remiss he had been, to leave this duty for so long! Eventually, drained and tired, he checked the defences one last time. As the web of Song faded back into the background, Thranduil noted a voice that hadn’t been present before he had sunk into the forest’s fea. Sure enough, bantering with Thranduil’s guard companions stood a welcome surprise.  
  
'Well met!’ he cried, and returned the warrior's embrace offered. ‘Is this extraordinary fate, or have you sought us?’

  
Maenthoron tossed his head, and laughed. ‘Word at Three Elms was that you were here. I suspected so; the trees are singing of you for miles. But I was not sure where.’

  
‘Well, it is a delightful surprise that we have crossed paths here.’

  
‘I would have made my way to you eventually, even in the tomb you call ‘home’.’

  
Thranduil rolled eyes. ‘And how did nomadic life treat you in the Great Winter just past? I heard it was brutal in the Eren Luin.’

  
‘Fortunately, I was in Southern Rhun basking in Arien’s joy.’

  
‘Very well, you may have this duel. Come, join us for a repast. What news from Rhun?’  
The caras they joined that evening yielded music, fire leaping and spiced cider. It was after a bout of fire leaping that Maenthoron, breathless and mildly singed, slung an arm over his shoulders.

  
‘Well, in some things you have not changed since you first stepped under these trees.’  
‘Oh?’ Thranduil said, barely pausing in his cooling draught of his cider.

  
‘You’re still as damn energetic as ever, Vigorous Spring.’

  
Thranduil snorted into his mug, but didn’t deny it. Maenthoron’s gaze turned covetous, and his voice low. ‘Yet you are more beauteous each time I see you.’

  
Seeing the look this garnered, he dropped his arm from Thranduil’s shoulders. ‘I know, alright. Apologies. Friendly camaraderie only.’ He looked around, as though he could find a way to change the subject in the canopy itself.

‘Could you be bullied into a hunt? There’s always a few good boars near here.’

  
‘Perhaps. I need to reach Three Elms Meander by the waning moon.’

  
‘Says who?’

  
‘Says I, and my plan.’

  
‘Oh pish, you always do that. Live a little.’ He turned, sought Siriann through the thong, and bellowed at him. ‘I am kidnapping your king tomorrow.’

  
‘You’re welcome to him!’ The guard called, and laughed, winking at Thranduil in a way he most likely would’t have without the influence of spiked cider. ‘With the usual safety precautions, of course, my king.’

  
'Not tomorrow,' Thranduil said. 'But soon.'

Later, they were the only two remaining beside the fire, after the meal and songs, lying companionably shoulder to shoulder under the stars. Maenthoron sighed.

  
‘The world feels smaller of late.’

  
Thranduil’s lips twitched. ‘It is,’ he noted.

  
‘Oh, you… I meant recently.’

  
‘I know. Sometimes the greater journey is that found within ourselves. Perhaps you need to spend a little time rediscovering?’  
‘Are you trying to convince me to visit for longer? I could. It appeals, certainly.’

  
‘You know you would be welcome. Just to be contrary, I often feel that the world is all too vast. Is there news of Angmar?’

  
‘No, nothing. He has all but disappeared, as far as my usual sources tell me. I doubt it, and I expect you do too.’

  
Thranduil was quiet.

  
‘What is it?’

  
‘Nothing.’

  
‘Fine. Keep your secrets,’ Maenthoron nudged him, then sobered. ‘I hear the illness continues.’

  
‘Yes. Much to my shame and anger. Who did you hear it from?’

  
‘Most people I spoke to since returning. I’m told that the Wanderers are constrained, and the Rooted are imposed upon. Eilvan told me about the spat you had to manage.’

  
‘Which one? There have been several these last two turns of the season. We haven’t had such a major change to our way of life since the aftermath of the war. They deserve better.’

  
‘You will prevail, as you have ever done.’

  
Thranduil sat up, rested his forearms on his knees and frowned as though the stars had personally offended him. ‘It’s not good enough.’ He stated. ‘We have striven and toiled to understand this sickness, but our most learned have all failed. I have walked the bounds, as you saw today, to bolster our borders, and in the South the trees are in such pain that I can barely concentrate on my work. But this sickness is too virulent. Even Elrond of Rivendell could not identify it, nor suggest a remedy. We have one final route, which is that we have been assuming that the spiders have followed the sickness as there are fewer elves. But what if the sickness follows Ungoliant’s spawn? Nileth is collaborating with other cartographers and healers to try to map the change, to see the impact of our culls these last two summers. Their numbers are much reduced, at least.’

  
‘Then next year, you could exterminate them.’

  
He made a sound of disgust. ‘I do not believe so.’

  
‘But surely, if you brought the whole of your forces to be-’

  
‘And leave our borders to the Wainriders? I’m sure you have heard that they are still abroad. No, they grow bolder than ever with the fracture of the woodsmen. Besides which, Alassiel has proposed that we might allow the survival just a few colonies of the spiders, and use their webs for silk. Our worms were reduced in the Great Winter, and we are hard pressed to meet the demands of the Imladrian Guilds. I prefer to err on side of caution, and clear them utterly if we can, but our people need good steel. All elves of our standing army are now armed, yet… Do you recall a time we had a peace so long as this before?’

  
‘No. Never so long. I am surprised it has lasted this long.’

  
‘As am I. And I feel a great foreboding that more will be needed, and soon. My father always cautioned me that when one evil falls, another must rise to take it’s place. This is the longest peace that I have known in all my years; I do not forsee it lasting much longer. When it fails, I intend that we meet our challengers prepared.’

  
When this was met with silence, he noticed that Maenthoron watched him intently.  
‘What? Am I preaching again?’

  
‘No, I agree. Very much. You almost make me yearn to be one of your people, did not the wild and the far edges of the world yet call to me. As they do for your Aeluin.’

  
‘She’s not my Aeluin. I don’t believe that she ever was.’

  
‘Would you have her otherwise?’

  
‘No. I suppose not.’

  
It was some days still before Thranduil would agree that the borders were sufficiently repaired in this area, and the group began to wind North. They crossed the tracks of a large boar, and so, after reassuring Siriann that he wouldn’t make himself vulnerable by working on the wards with only one elf to defend him, Thranduil and Maenthoron began their hunt.

  
Thranduil strode through the forest with a depth of relief that surprised him, and took a deep breath, relishing the joy of simple hunting after the most recent spider purge. After a time, they took to the branches, tracking the boar through copses and clearings. The energy of the autumnal forest was so healthy here that he could almost forget. There was only the bark beneath his hands, the breeze on his face, and the anticipation of a well-planned hunt. Soon, they were successful, and waited coiled, watching. Feeling eyes on him, he glanced back at Maenthoron, crouched on a branch before him. The potent gaze immediately softened, and he grinned.

  
‘Welcome back,’ Maenthoron said, soft as a leaf’s fall.

  
Both fell silent, and took up position with their short spears. Maenthoron, with his greater hunting experience, would take the shot to the head. Thranduil would take the surety shot to the chest in profile.  
He could see the breaths of the boar. The individual hairs of its snout. And across from him in the boughs, the leashed power of Maenthoron’s body, his watchfulness, his strength and elegance, before he threw the spear with all the skill of his name. A blink later, Thranduil threw his own. Sure enough, the boar was skewered from both angles, and would barely have known of his own death.

  
Thranduil, however, could feel his heart pumping, pumping, pumping, so that he could almost imagine that he could feel the four chambers Elrond had described. It failed to abate as they descended, so that soon he was stood before Maenthoron on the forest floor with his mouth dry, and lips parted. Maenthoron stood so as well, his chest rising and falling as he stared back. He took a sleek step closer, stopped himself, and went to the boar, doubtless mindful of when last rebuffed. He crouched beside the carcass, and took out his knife, and so when Thranduil spoke it was to his back.

  
‘How long would you say you have wanted me?’ he asked.

  
Those capable hands paused, idly flipped the knife. ‘You mean how long have we wanted each other?’

  
Thranduil shifted his weight, stepped forward in a way that could almost be inadvertent. ‘You wanted before I did.’

  
Maenthoron slowly wound a length of cord around his hand, and then put it down. Then he looked again, up over his shoulder. Finally, he rose to stand and face him warily amongst the sounds of songbird and stream, of wind and tree-song.

  
In two swift strides, Thranduil reached him, took his face between his hands and kissed him. Arms wound around his waist without hesitation, large, firm hands clutched at his back, and that hot mouth responded immediately. Flush against him, Maenthoron’s form was hard, muscular, his kiss challenging in a new way. And then it wasn’t.

  
He was held away, his own hands now held stupidly before him as Maenthoron jerked back.

  
‘What game do you play now, Himdoron?  
Thranduil grinned. ‘The best of games,’ he breathed. ‘I want you.’ With one hand he cupped Maenthoron’s groin through buckskin, a touch as coy as it was elegant, which was to say; not at all.

  
Maenthoron hissed, his hand trapping Thranduil’s over him, tightening it over the shape against his palm. His own breath came harder of a sudden, and the warmth that had been growing in his belly burned hotter, and lower. He shifted his hand, the better to feel, and Maenthoron’s warm hold caressed up his wrist to the meat of his upper arm. The hand was powerful, and callused, calling to mind again the heft of the spear, the power of his arms, the steady there-ness of his hroa, and Maenthoron watched him closely as he was brought to greater arousal by the working of his mind alone.

  
And then there was that hot mouth again, and the body, oh the body straining against his own, and while he was still reeling with that, hands quested under his tunic, to the laces of his breeches. Fingers slipping over the wet tip of his cock, and he was exposed to the cold air. ‘You see that I did not lie,’ he gasped, his own fingers much less dextrous with Maenthorons laces. The slide of fingers around the ridge prompted a hitch of breath, and his next words were unsteady. ‘I have been thinking on this for days. Longing… for days.’ The hand closed firm around him.

  
‘Let us not tarry, then. Have you any arrow oil?’

  
‘I have better,’ he replied, with a bite to Maenthoron’s lower lip. He took the little jar from his quiver, stored away that morning. ‘Here.’

  
Maenthoron took it with a smirk, one arm around his waist as though he still feared he might change his mind. ‘You should have said. I would have taken care of you before I did the boar.’

  
Restraining himself from all manner of gauche jokes following that statement, Thranduil drew him away to a mossy bank, urged him down onto the ground and straddled him. As soon as he had loosened his tunic Maenthoron’s hands were on him, spreading the fabric and looking up at him as though he had never seen him before. Then those hands were lifting the tunic over his head, and spread over his back, and lips were on his chest. He tangled his fingers in the straight, dark hair, and felt a strange sense of disconnection as he realised how like it was to Elrond’s. In that moment of confusion, he was turned to lie upon his back and into the view of the autumn canopy came Maenthoron’s smiling face.

  
And well might he smile, running his fingers teasingly along the skin above Thranduil’s breeches.

  
‘Get on with it,’ Thranduil demanded.

  
He laughed, low and dangerous. Swiftly, he stripped him below the waist and sucked a biting kiss to his thigh. Thranduil hissed and spread his legs wider, and was rewarded with the touch of a greased finger right where he wanted it, and by Maenthoron easing the breach of his finger with the pleasure of his mouth. Groaning, he pressed his hips upwards. Oh, how did only two season-cycles seem so long? There followed several long minutes of two fingers and a sucking, demanding mouth. Thranduil was vaguely aware of swearing, of the hair under his clutching hands, and of bending his legs to anchor his heels in the loam.

  
‘F-fuck!’

  
And then those two fingers were in the perfect place, and that tongue was pressing up against the underside of his cock, and it was warm, and wet, and his climax was harsh, leaving him lying insensate in it’s wake.

  
A few moments of respite, and another finger pressed insistently inside, before the three were jerked quickly from side to side. Though not precisely uncomfortable, it felt strange, and he could only manage a vague displeased sound.

  
‘Just bear it a moment,’ Maenthoron urged, so he did.

  
Instead, he focussed upon the clear green ink patterns as rich as late summer leaves over Maenthoron’s shouders, like moss on rich earth. He thought again how well gold would suit him, if he would but wear it. Soon enough, the disagreeable fingers did their job, and within moments Maenthoron was between his legs and easing himself inside. It felt different. Neither better nor worse, but different, and that in itself made his catch his breath. The second cock he had ever had inside him.

  
He ran his hands over Maenthoron’s shoulders, over the inked patterns, and strove to relax for the rocking thrusts that sent tendrils of sensation swirling through his pelvis. Soon enough, Maenthoron sat back on his heels.

  
‘Can I go a little faster?’ he asked.

  
‘Yes, more. More,’ And, oh! did he oblige, sending sharp knife edges of pleasure up his spine. ‘Ai, ai…ah!’

  
Keen to return the pleasure he reached for Maenthoron’s testes, but he still had his breeches on and getting them off wasn’t easy while their wearer was thrusting. He tried to open them further, but that wasn’t successful either. Nevertheless, Maenthoron soon groaned with his first release, barely pausing in his movements, still fucking unsteadily through his pleasure. Finally, Thranduil gave up.

  
‘Fox shit!’ he cursed, a giddy sort of laugh bubbling up in his chest. He tugged once more at the offending breeches. ‘Get these off!’

  
Snorting a laugh, Maenthoron pulled out and kicked them off. They fell to hang by one leg off a fern. He pressed a kiss to Thranduil’s neck, and grinned against his skin.

‘Better?’

‘Much.’

‘Good.’

Maenthoron took hold of his thighs and tugged him closer, and he could feel the leaf litter, the twigs and stones in his back, but he forgot it all when Maenthoron pushed his prick back inside him. And again. And again. It was wet with his previous release, and the thought made a shiver chase down Thranduil’s spine. With legs locked high around waist and his hands clutching upper arms, Maenthoron could thrust with not even a breath between movements, a steady rapid fuck, fuelled by the high from the hunt and yenni of thwarted desire.

  
Maenthoron was watching him. Along with the effects of his movements it was too much, and Thranduil closed his eyes, and felt his forehead resting against his own. His nails broke the skin of Maenthoron’s shoulders, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was murmuring ragged praise of Thranduil’s beauty, and things that might make him blush. How he had breath to manage even that speech, when Thranduil could only gasp and cry out, when it felt like water just below the point of boiling washed through him, was beyond Thranduil’s comprehension. Then he wasn’t comprehending anything at all, only the exquisite push of Maenthoron so deep in his body.

After, he let his legs fall loosely apart, cupped Maenthoron’s testes and enjoyed the blissful hiss this caused. Now he could watch at his leisure, the elegant strength of his torso and arms. Remember again as Maenthoron threw the spear, and let out a shivery breath. Maenthoron pulled out, pressed the head at his entrance, and it caused a shimmering sort of pleasure to feel him push back inside. He concentrated, tightened his muscles, and was rewarded when Maenthoron tipped into climax, biting the meat of his clavicle as he did, not quite hard enough to break skin. Unlike Maenthoron’s shoulders, which were now adorned with smears of blood.

A few harsh breaths, and Maenthoron pulled out and flopped onto his back. They lay silently, and Thranduil was thankful for the opportunity to relish the feel of the forest, and the thrumming of his body.

  
Movement beside him heralded Maenthoron turning onto his side and resting on his elbow. He spoke conversationally.

‘I have wanted to join with you since our first meeting. Since I first saw you, as you well know. I thought you didn’t like to speak of it?’

‘There are many things I once did not like,’ he quipped. ‘I have felt otherwise of late.’

‘Mm, well, how fortunate for me,’ Maenthoron mused, and cupped his palm over one of Thranduil’s buttocks. ‘I’m glad I will be wintering here. Will you be retiring early this evening?’

  
‘I might if you do.’

Maenthoron made a satisfied sound, and kissed him before lurching to his feet. ‘Good. By Morgoth, what have you done to me you fiend? I can barely stand.’

  
‘If you wish to compete on that score, you’ll lose.’

‘Hm. You’re well, though?’

‘Yes. I just need a minute.’

He grinned, and as he strolled down to the stream Thranduil felt relief flow through him. How easy this was. How comfortable. How simple.

He could get used to this.

* * *

 

‘-and I thought this linen might be suitable in place of the plain, beneath the Greenwood silk robe.’

His tailor lifted a bolt from the stack that his apprentice was striving to keep from tumbling onto the tiled floor. As ever, Camaen had not heeded Elrond’s requests for restraint, and as ever he had surprised Elrond with his perception of what might be needed. The cloth was a warm cream colour, no different from the cloth of his finer shirts. Until Camaen held the cloth out from the bolt, and folds formed, and within them was the subtlest glimmer of gold thread, like a lustre, where it caught the light from the window. Like the glimmer of nets of sunlight in the shallows of a beach.

  
He was reaching for it before he was fully aware of doing so, tracing the gilding of the light. This would suit their purposes as an under-robe nicely, but on Thranduil such a cloth would look… He could imagine it; Thranduil, reclining on a low-slung branch with a book, in breeches and a Doriathrin tunic-style shirt of this cloth. The sunlight would shine through the leaves, and kiss his hair, and these golden threads. The cream and gold would contrast beautifully against his skin as it enriched to an acorn brown through the Imladrian summer. His green eyes would look across at Elrond, and he would smile.

‘My lord?’

‘Oh, yes. My apologies, this is a most suitable choice. I will have a tunic of this, also, with different measurements, though I regret I do not have them to hand.’ Camaen accepted this with his usual professional disinterest in his client’s matters.

‘Thank you, my lord. My apprentice can return this afternoon for the measurements if that is to your liking?’

That should be feasible; a few adjustments would be simple. He nodded.

‘Excellent. Now, I have brought your usual winter boot, along with one or two shoe options for formalwear.’

A se’enight later, the clothing was delivered. He took the shirt, so carefully folded, and placed it carefully within one of his dresser drawers, awaiting the next as-yet-undecided season that he would again be able to welcome it’s intended recipient.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. This is going to take me a while, I think. Though the Easter holidays should be a good time!   
> All feedback reassures me that some people enjoy my writing, making me feel less anxious about sharing and more likely to do so *nudge nudge* Please, please do let me know what you think. Thanks! 
> 
> fëa - soul

Thranduil closed his eyes to better feel as climax overcame him, and heard Maenthoron grunt as he sat back onto his heels. Pushing into the resistance as Thranduil’s body tightened. Enjoying it. It kept that spiralling pleasure going, and the release after it faded made him shiver. Shortly, Maenthoron shuddered to a halt above him, and groaned, before setting what he would probably term a ‘friendly slap’ on Thranduil’s thigh. The mattress lurched as he rose, and somewhere over to the right water splashed into the ewer.

‘Drink?’, asked his disembodied voice, and Thranduil opened his eyes to see a cup held an inch from his nose. He reached to take it, but for a moment his fingers seemed barely able to grasp it. With a stern thought he pulled himself together. It seemed as though his whole lower body was aching, was throbbing with his heartbeat. Unhelpful, when he still had work to do this eve. He swallowed.

‘Can you get me a cloth?’ Maenthoron hummed, and complied, and then with a smirk watched Thranduil make a cursory attempt at cleaning himself.

‘Satisfied?,’ he asked. ‘Or do you require another nightcap?’

‘I don’t believe I’ll require another ‘nightcap’ for a se’ennight.’

‘Oh, now I hope that is an overestimation,’ he said, and, kneeling upon the bed, bent down to brush his lips over his chest. He glanced up under his lashes, and flicked his tongue over his nipple.

‘I imagine it may prove so, nevertheless I certainly don’t want another round right this moment.’ 

‘Pity. Though admittedly I do not believe I could rise to the occasion myself yet. Tomorrow?’

‘Not tomorrow. I tour to the East from the next New Moon, remember?’

‘Oh, yes. It really will be more than a se’ennight then. Unless you would welcome a twilight visitor to steal you away, bear you down in the soil beside the roots of an oak, bring you to satisfaction within hearing of-.’

‘Tempting. No, thank you.’

‘Very well; I shall have to content myself with my hand until your return. Or I think Thalion still has a soft spot for me. Or a hard spot, I should say.’

Thranduil rose and donned his dressing robe. What time was it? Even now, he must read and respond to the report afternoon’s meeting. There were unanswered letters too, and two requisition orders. And a last-minute request from an Eastern Caras that conficted with the interests of two others and needed a decision made before he began his journey just after dawn.

‘I have meant to tell you, in truth, that I’m not able to continue seeing you so regularly. This is not a restful season for me at the best of times, as you know, and with Almeldir away I am more pressed than usual.’

‘Even more reason for you to take a little time to enjoy yourself. I hardly think that our liaisons take much time from your responsibilities.’

‘They do if we’re to do it properly.’

‘Then let’s not do it properly.’ His lover’s body crowded him from behind, hands held his waist, a kiss was pressed behind his ear. ‘Let me press you against a wall in the silk sheds, or bend you over the desk in your office between meetings.’

He laughed then, before realising Maenthoron had meant it. He broke the hold and turned around, but didn’t bother to step away.

‘Be sensible, mellon nin.’ Maenthoron shrugged one shoulder.

‘I can dream. And I do.’ He winked, but seemed to take his cue from Thranduil’s expression and stepped away. ‘Anyone would think that it wasn’t you who instigated this dalliance.’

‘Tonight, or in the beginning?’

‘Did you not seek both? Truly, what troubles you? This is intended as a diversion, Thranduil, you have said so yourself.’

‘I know it, and nothing’s the matter.’

‘Do you know?’ He met Thranduil’s incredulous look with wide hands. ‘Bedding you takes time because you want it to. We could just fuck, we don’t need to spend time on dragging it out. Though, don’t mistake me; I appreciate your attentions.’

‘I don’t…drag it out.’

‘You have been lately.’ Had he? Certainly he’d been in less of a hurry of late than their first few times, but it was still more peremptory than he was used to.

‘Mayhap that’s habit.’

‘Your mysterious past lover again,’ Maenthoron said, and as usual he didn’t seem jealous; only mildly curious, and perhaps a little bitter. Thranduil ignored it, again as usual, and kissed him whilst backing him away to the door.

‘I have a letter to respond to,’ he said between kisses. When Maenthoron had left, Thranduil stood for a few moments to gather his wits. There had been nothing wrong with the climax; it had been all consuming. And yet. May Ivann forbid that he seek a little…finesse.

Putting such thoughts aside, he entered his office, poured a glass of wine, and considered the documents littering the desk. Finally, he picked up the report from the day’s meeting. Once that was dealt with, the letter from Almeldir was simple enough, as was the update on the cartographers’ progress, but the requisition orders took some time to decode; the shorthand the North Eastern patrols used seemed to morph each season. Elrond would have been fascinated; Thranduil could imagine him bent over the parchment, then holding it up to the lamp with careful fingers to see better, and asking questions about the writing structure Thranduil hadn’t even thought to consider. Perhaps he needed more light. Pressing his fingertips around his eye sockets helped, but only until he began to read again. At times like this, it was easy to see why Almeldir recommended a financial advisor.

Elrond’s letter still sat in his pocket, unanswered for days. He took out the letter, and found that he was smiling as he unfolded the well-worn parchment. He settled back into the chair, and the smooth wood was hard beneath his tense shoulders. Two slow, deliberate breaths, and his muscles relaxed. Formalities between them had long been dispensed with, even in writing, so the letter was warm and affectionate in tone, and even in Thranduil’s fatigued state it was a balm. He read again the account of Earnur’s visit, and Elrond’s recitation of the memory of Elros that Earnur had prompted. The love that Elrond held for this adan was clear, and unsurprising really considering the sheer amount of love Elrond had for all who needed it. A peculiar longing smote him then, to see Elrond so happy, and to feel that affection first hand, and he wondered that he could be so affected by fatigue. He would reply, complete his work, and rest; it would not do to be less than his best for his people tomorrow. Now, to make Elrond laugh… Legolas’ antics on his leave, not a moon’s turn past. That should make Elrond smile even in his more sombre moods. He completed the letter, and sealed it, setting it carefully in the outgoing tray.

After a deep breath and a stretch, he returned to work with renewed vigour and an eased headache. After tipping a little more oil into the lamp, he re-read the request from the clan. Instinct urged him to deny it. But that must be the fatigue talking; it wasn’t good enough. He must do better. It would be best to speak with the clans all together, to come to a compromise. After considering a map, he was satisfied; with some thoughtful manoeuvring, reduced rest, and fast travel, they could spend more time at Beech’s Dip without reducing the time dedicated to visiting with other clans. Good. He would have an hour or two of sleep before the dawn. 

* * *

Breaking his fast weekly with Glorfindel and Erestor was often enough that he appreciated the time, and yet not so rare that it would be unforgivably rude to open the letter now. Or so Elrond reasoned, as he reached for the packet with the Greenwood seal. He opened the official packet and drew out the smaller letter within it. This one would be in Thranduil’s hand just as the official letter, but would also be in his true voice, as one friend to another. He set the packet back on the tray for Lindir to add to the rest of his official correspondence in his study. The smaller letter, he opened and glanced through, then paused and re-read one passage before promptly choking on a mouthful of bread.

Glorfindel poured the now-brewed tea. ‘His majesty is in good spirits, then?’ he asked.

‘You know he despises that address,’ Elrond said dryly, after a sip of tea. ‘Yes, it appears so. His son had quite the summer by all accounts. That boy is as wild as it is possible to be while still technically being obedient.’

‘I imagine Thranduil thanks the Rhodyn daily that he was not blessed with twins,’ Erestor said. Glorfindel shot him a warning look, like a parent chiding another for mentioning sex. But strangely, thankfully, the melancholy he had lately been beset with when thinking about his sons was a little dulled this morning.

‘Yes, two of him doesn’t bear thinking about. At least my two have the self-preservation not to fire-jump.’

‘That we know of,’ muttered Erestor through a mouthful of porridge.

He tucked the letter carefully away into his breast pocket, to read properly at his leisure, and stop being inconsiderate by ignoring friends in favour of another. That afternoon, he left his study to sit on the terrace beneath the pergola, and opened his letter. Before long he found himself smiling. Though, as he read it through again, he noticed an unsettled feeling. Was it from the letter itself, or just from missing his friend? He read a few lines over carefully. There was an unusual undertone to the letter; it was shallower and less rich, for all it’s humour. And contained very little of Thranduil’s own life and thoughts. Autumn was always a busy time in the Greenwood, of course, but Thranduil thrived thus and his letters usually showed it, with verve speckled like glittering mica shards through his writing.

As he thought, Elrond sat at his harp and played some scales, and then a few little melodies. Plucking almost idly at the strings, he watched the leaves falling and let the tune follow them. The lilting, haphazard spin and sway of them. It became a light, gently playful harmony, a steady melody beneath that was touched with hopeful sorrow. Soaring, the harmonic theme repeating faster, stronger, richer with longing, until he brought the steadfast melody to the fore, like a long averted gaze snapping to meet his own. And not just any person. Thranduil. The composition was all of Thranduil; his playfulness, his charisma, his strength and kindness. Melancholy, and joy, and persistence. The entire piece was composed with him in mind, with the feel of him in Elrond’s fëa.

For there was indeed a particular character to thoughts of him, and to the joy of his presence. Had he not been driven to share the wonder of Elros’ memory in Earnur, so secure in the knowledge that he would be understood? He wanted to ensure he could provide the same to his friend; make him happy and contented, be the person Thranduil could rely upon in turn. _Thank you,_ Thranduil had said, _for being someone I can trust with it._ Oh! If that didn’t bring a rush of affection; a tenderness he yearned to bestow. To show Thranduil how very loved he was. As-of course!-he had already been doing, unknowing; lingering embraces, casual kisses, conversations late into the night.

On their last night together in Greenwood, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he had made love to Thranduil to the tune of an ancient love song from before the Sundering, so old that no one now remembered who had composed it.

Made love. Yes, that was what he had done.

Elrond’s stomach dropped as the Sight spread through his mind like fire to touchpaper, but it was weak and disjointed. So much so that he had the chance to reflect that the timing was dreadfully inconvenient; he had quite enough to consider as it was. The images came all at once, as was sometimes the case, and at the same time out of order. Snatches of the whole, coalescing, jumping, settling again. A section of cornicing; the tower room. Music through the open window; the very song he had just composed. Thranduil’s feet in his lap, embroidery on his nightrobe’s cuff, a book, fingers idly (maddeningly!) curling the page’s corner. Flicker of fire over aureate hair, a lock twisting to a ringlet. The music. Firelight. Curl of Elrond’s own smile, as though he held a secret in his mouth. Thranduil eyes flick up, catching him looking, tilt of head. The ringlet slips loose. Music. An offered hand, connecting, long unfolding of legs to stand as Thranduil complies with the unspoken request to dance. Together. Close, Thranduil tucked beside him, and in a snatch of wakefulness he feels a deep ache of want. His own cherishing arm, cradling Thranduil’s body close. Eyes closed. A loving murmur in his ear.

And then it was morning again, beneath the pergola, and he was aware of birdsong and his own gasping breaths. A wagtail hopped along the banister, and tilted it’s head at him, and a breathless laugh burst from him.

Yes. That was what he had done. And what he would do again. And next time, it would be with jubilant love spilling freely from his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> *The honey harvest idea is based off real people in the Himalayas! Though, their honey has psychedelic properties. Whether the Elvenking's honey does is up to you...
> 
> It's been a long, long time. I'm sorry to have disappeared. Without trying to have a bit of a sob-story or make excuses, I was very depressed for a while while writing FSIG, and over time it became clear that I had to focus on 'real life' in order to get a handle on it. So far, every time I've started trying to write again I've swung back down. But now I feel well enough to continue, so I'm starting a different phase of the story. I'm still getting back into writing, so please be aware it's a bit rushed. 
> 
> Thanks so much to people who have continued kudosing, reviewing and getting in touch! It's been great, and helped me keep in mind how much I love writing. This story is dedicated to you.


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